The Colours of the World
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: Grantaire bit his lip in concentration, staring intently at the canvas as if it would whisper to him some untold secret hidden in its depths. Grantaire is a painter, Enjolras is a snob, Jehan's kind of adorable, Combeferre's a bit of a drunk, and I'm sobbing in a corner. Grantaire/Jehan, slow-build E/R. T for language, some violence, and suggestive dialogue/themes
1. Red and Black

**A/N: Sorry this first chapter is so long! I wanted to get through a lot of stuff before I got to the second (which should be uploaded in two or three weeks). It's very hypocritical of me since I HATE super long chapters, but I APOLOGISE most sincerely. Anyhow, I hope you guys like this! I'm very pleased with it (with the exception of certain parts that took me hours to work through, not painlessly). I also hope that I did Jean Prouvaire correctly. Please let me know by reviewing!**

**Chapter One**

Red **_and_** Black

Grantaire bit his lip in concentration, staring intently at the canvas as if it would whisper to him some untold secret hidden in its depths. He dipped his brush in red and carefully, _carefully_, brushed it across the fabric. A tree, tall and unyielding, now stood where nothing previously had. It was surrounded by pedestrians, who barely glance at the tree as they hurried to and fro their various workplaces. All but one of the people were a stark, impenetrable black, which stood out strikingly against the bloodred buildings that made up the majority of the background; the other was a light, almost pinkish red, and it stood perfectly still, staring up at the magnificent tree, eyes wide in reverent wonder.

The doorbell rang, startling Grantaire out of his trance; he only just managed to stop himself from lurching forward and adding an accidental streak of red to his painting. He set down his palette and, wiping his hands with an already paint-covered dishrag, made his way through his desperately cluttered flat to answer the door. He flung open the door with a warm smile, expecting to see one of his friends of neighbours standing there; it was neither.

A tall, muscular man with a halo of golden curls and piercing blue eyes was standing in front of Grantaire, hands in the pockets of his expensive designer jeans. He looked up when the door opened, and seemed to evaluate Grantaire's appearance – he seemed not to think much of his present outfit, which consisted of a paint-splattered smock, a pair of low-slung skinny jeans, and a loose-fitting t-shirt that read, C'EST NE PAS UNE T-SHIRT. "Er, hi," said Grantaire, feeling slightly self-conscious. "How can I help you?"

"I am Enjolras. I am sorry to disturb you, but I just moved in next door and I seem to have a problem with the plumbing. The landlord told me to ask you to help me with it – you _are_ Grantaire, aren't you?–but if you are too busy..." He spoke in a formal, old-fashioned manner, but his voice was at the same time commanding; he seemed to be the sort of man that you could trust wholeheartedly, someone who could lead even the most raucous of people.

Grantaire smiled warmly. "Welcome to the building! I think you'll like it here. The neighbours are all very nice. Anyhow, I am the one and only Grantaire and I have been told that I have some skill when it comes to plumbing, so it would be my very great pleasure to assist you in any way that I can."

"Thank you. Would you mind taking a look at it now? The issue seems to be based underneath the sink. I don't know why it isn't a better model, but I suppose that's my own fault for coming here."

Grantaire's smile wavered for a second before returning in full force. "Righto!" he said brightly. "Let me just change out of my smock and get my equipment and I'll be over in just a moment."

Enjolras thanked him again and left. Grantaire stared after him for a moment, head tilted slightly to the side as if in confusion. Then he remembered his task and lifted his painter's smock over his head, laying it gently on the green couch that stood in one corner, facing the television. Grantaire went to the bathroom and got his heavy toolbox, carrying it carefully through his flat and into the one next door. Enjolras was waiting for him, perched on the edge of an expensive leather couch.

He jumped up when he spotted Grantaire, and it looked for a second like he was going to bow formally; instead he nodded silently in the direction of the kitchen.

Grantaire entered and found that his mouth was slightly open in awe. A gleaming silver refrigerator that must have been at the very least a thousand pounds, ditto for the almost ridiculously shiny stove; marble countertops, all polished to perfection; and a brand-new dishwasher – the contents of Enjolras' kitchen.

The sink was the only appliance that was even vaguely recognisable to Grantaire, and that was only because he had the same model in his own kitchen; it was the type that came with all of the flats in the building. The doors to the cabinet were wide open, displaying a mess of white PVC pipes. Grantaire set down his toolbox and got to his hands and knees, carefully inspecting the pipes. After a moment or two he popped his head back out and called, "I see what the problem is! You've just got a small break in one of the pipes. I'll have it fixed in no time!"

He did not hear a reply; Grantaire shrugged and got to work.

* * *

"There!" said Grantaire, smiling with satisfaction as he closed the cabinet doors. "All finished." He looked up and jumped a little; Enjolras was sitting on one of the two barstools at the counter island, observing him with a strange expression. He looked a little embarrassed, but recovered quickly.

"Well, I'm not exactly known for my plumbing skills, so I will that you've done a good job," he said, attempting to sound congratulatory but instead coming off as rather haughty. It did not seem to faze Grantaire, who smiled all the brighter and got to his feet.

"Any time," he said, packing up his equipment. "I needed a little bit of distraction anyhow; my latest work has been somewhat stubborn." Enjolras' brow furrowed. "I'm a painter," said Grantaire, in an explanatory tone. "Well, painter/alcoholic." He said it with a laugh in his voice, but his eyes seemed somehow less cheerful.

"What type of art do you do?" asked Enjolras politely.

Grantaire shrugged. "It's sort of philosophical. You're welcome to come and look any time you want to."

"Thank you. How much do you charge?" Enjolras asked, pulling out his expensive leather wallet and examining the bills inside.

"Whatever for?"

Enjolras blinked. "For the plumbing."

Grantaire laughed. "Why on earth would I charge you? No, it's free. Anyhow, I should probably get going. My shift starts in an hour."

Enjolras looked slightly bemused, but put his wallet away. "Where do you work?"

"At the bar down the street—ABC Café, it's called. Bit of irony for you there, but I suppose I just live to be a metaphor," Grantaire said. "I'll see you later!"

Enjolras turned as Grantaire walked past, staring at the back of his head quizzically. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Later."

Grantaire hummed to himself as he changed into a pair of slightly nicer jeans and trainers, pausing to glance at the intricate gilded frame of his mirror. It was impossibly old, and in places the gold showed it—little nicks and scrapes from a time long ago, before Grantaire had even been thought of. It was his great-to-the-nth-degree-grandfather's, and dated back to Revolutionary France. The grandfather's name had been Grantaire as well. When his fellow classmates had teased him about his name, Grantaire had told them, with an air of great self-importance, that it was his ancestor's name, and that said ancestor had won the Revolution for France. Later, of course, his classmates had learnt the truth, but they still thought it was amazing that his ancestor had fought in the battle (well, one of them).

He smiled at the memory and traced his fingers along the bottom of the mirror, feeling for the little cuts that made it beautiful. Then he grabbed his car keys and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans and left his flat. He waved at Marius and a very pregnant Cosette, whose flat door was open as they walked through, arms laden with groceries. Their daughter, Eponine, trailed behind, staring up at Grantaire with enormous brown eyes. She waved back at him solemnly before ducking between her mother and father into their flat.

"Want to have dinner with us, R?" Cosette called, setting down her overflowing bag. "It's taco night!"

"I'd love to, but my shift's in a bit, so..." said Grantaire, smiling apologetically.

"Oh, that's too bad. Eponine, love, you're tugging. I'll see you later, R!" she said, glancing down at her daughter, who had sat herself down on the ground and wrapped her small limbs around her mother's leg. Grantaire smiled to himself and descended the last few flights of stairs at a trot. Another distraction was waiting in the lobby—Combeferre, one of Grantaire's best friends, who lived in the flat opposite him.

"Oy, R, when're we going out for a drink?" he asked. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"I've been sober for two months, Combeferre. I'm not breaking my fabulous streak because your latest girlfriend dumped you. Go ask Courfreyrac, all right? God knows he can hold his liquor better than you."

Combeferre stuck his tongue out at Grantaire but grinned nonetheless and gave him a quick hug before bounding up the stairs two at a time. Grantaire shook his head and muttered, "At this rate I'll be getting to the Musain at three in the morning."

* * *

"What can I get you?" asked Grantaire, carefully cleaning a shotglass.

"Just a beer, please," said an unfamiliar voice from behind him. Grantaire turned. A man, around his age, was sitting at the bar in front of him. His blue eyes were large and round and he had a boyish innocence about his delicate features.

"Coming right up." Grantaire grabbed a cold bottle and popped the cap off cleanly, handing the beer to the man. "And who might you be? You aren't a regular here."

"Well, I only just moved here a few weeks ago. My name is Jean Prouvaire, but everyone calls me Jehan."

Jehan smiled widely and it was so infectious that Grantaire could not help returning it. "Welcome to town, Jean Prouvaire. I'm Grantaire. Kind of funny; I only just met a guy who's new as well. Posh sort of bloke. I had to fix his sink."

"Oh, are you a plumber?" asked Jehan, taking a sip of his beer. Grantaire laughed and shook his head.

"Only recreationally, I'm happy to say. I'm a painter, though not a particularly good one. And what do you do, if I may ask?"

Jehan shrugged. "I play the flute quite well and I write poetry. What sort of paintings do you do?"

"Philosophical ones. They don't really go for much, but last year I met a bloke in France who offered me fifteen hundred pounds for a set of three, which was about the best deal I ever made. They weren't even my best ones, either."

"I bet they're brilliant," said Jehan earnestly. Grantaire smiled and poured some whiskey for a man on the other side of the bar.

"Well, it's nice to know that you're on my side, even if nobody else is," he said. "You know what? I think I like you very much, Jehan."

Jehan turned bright red. "Thank you," he said, looking rather pleased.

At eleven o'clock on the dot, Grantaire set down the dishrag that he had been using to wipe down the glossy wood top of the bar and announced quite loudly, "Right, you lot, the bar's closing, so you'd better clear out, understand?"

Musichetta, one of the waitresses, snorted with laughter as she whisked away a tray of empty glasses and dirty plates. "Eloquent as ever, Grantaire. Sobriety certainly suits you!"

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Grantaire. He turned to Jehan, who had lingered at the bar, chatting away merrily, long after he finished his beer. "You have a ride home?"

"Well, er...no, not exactly, but I can call a cab," Jehan said; he looked slightly embarrassed.

"Nonsense. I'll give you a lift. You mind sitting tight for a few minutes while I lock up?"

Jehan shook his head, blushing. "Thank you very much," he said.

Grantaire smiled. "No problem. Musichetta, have you about finished cleaning up?"

Musichetta threw a filthy dishrag at his head, along with her black apron. "What do you think? I'm heading out—my dog needs a walk before I go to bed. You kids have fun, yeah?" She winked at both him and Jehan and exited the bar. Grantaire rolled his eyes at her back and turned to Jehan.

"Right. I'm just going to lock up and then we can leave, ok?"

Jehan nodded, smiling. Grantaire gave him a swift grin before disappearing into the backroom. He returned a few minutes later, tugging his car keys out of the front pocket of his jeans. "Ready?"

"Yep!" Jehan hopped up from his barstool and donned his soft grey sweatshirt. They exited the bar, Grantaire herding out the last stragglers as they went.

"Come on, guys. I've been sober for two months. Surely you can be sober for a single night," he said in a cajoling tone. The last person to exit, a tall man with brown hair streaked with grey, glared at him. Jehan stifled a laugh at his disgruntled expression.

"That's mean to say," he admonished, nudging Grantaire's shoulder with his own. Grantaire shrugged, locking the door behind him.

"It's not like I'm wrong," he said.

"Well, maybe, but you ought to be kinder to them," Jehan said; he smiled. Grantaire paused at his car, staring into Jehan's eyes.

"Wow," he said after a minute.

Jehan blushed. "What?"

"You genuinely _care_, don't you? About the people that I insulted—the people you don't even know. You actually _care_ about them."

"Well, yeah. I mean, everyone has feelings, don't they, even if you don't know them?" Jehan asked, looking self-conscious at Grantaire's gaze.

"Huh. Just—wow." Grantaire smiled at him and it was soft and sweet and a little bit shy. Then he unlocked his car and got into the driver's side and started it up. "Right. Where do you live—and I promise I'm not as creepy as that sounded," he said, as Jehan climbed into the passenger side and buckled himself in.

Jehan laughed. "I'm three-five-one Maple Lane. It's only a few minutes away from here."

"Well, you'll have to help me because I don't think I've ever been in that part of town," said Grantaire, pulling out of the car park.

"It's a left up here and then two rights and another left," Jehan supplied, pointing at the next traffic light. Grantaire nodded.

"Okay. Can you put a CD in for me? It's the one on top in the glovebox," he said. Jehan nodded and pulled out the CD. He put it in and pressed the ON button. He smiled when the first song started playing.

"Do you like it?" Grantaire asked, glancing at Jehan before turning his gaze back to the road.

"Yeah...what's it called?"

"It's Death Cab for Cutie—the band, I mean. The song's called _I Will Follow You Into the Dark_, which sounds kind of stalkerish. It's really good, though. Have you heard them before?"

Jehan shook his head, tapping his fingers against his knee in time to the music. "I listen to a lot of classical. Handel, Schubert, et cetera et cetera."

"Ah, so you're _that_ kind of music snob," said Grantaire. Jehan looked confused before he noticed the placating grin on Grantaire's face.

"That's the official scientific term for it, is it?" he asked. Grantaire nodded.

"Oh, definitely. Real fact. Music snob is the official term. Ask anybody. Absolute truth here. Right—this appears to be Maple Lane. Just point out your house to me, all right?"

Jehan sat up straighter and peered around the street; it was made up of large manor houses styled to look Victorian. "That one," he said, pointing to one that would have been light green with darker green shutters in daytime.

"It's really nice," Grantaire said, pulling up at the curb. Jehan blushed a little.

"Thank you. It's my mum's, but she moved to my aunt's a few years ago and left it to me. Well, it's been...really nice," he said, smiling shyly. Grantaire nodded, looking a bit nervous.

"Er, I'll see you later, right?"

"'Bye," Jehan said, and before he could stop himself, he hugged Grantaire and slipped out of the car. He waved as he headed up the front walk to his house. Grantaire waited until he saw Jehan disappear into the stately Victorian and he pulled out and headed in the direction of his building.

* * *

Grantaire woke with a start and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He stared around his bedroom for the source of the noise that had jolted him from sleep, but nothing presented itself. He glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table. 7:10. He groaned and swung his legs over the side of his bed, stretching luxuriously before standing and crossing to the window. He drew the shades, letting the brilliant sunlight fill the room.

The doorbell rang and Grantaire jumped. "Who in the _hell_ could want something at this hour?" he muttered, but made his way reluctantly through his flat to the door. He flung it open.

Courfreyrac was standing there, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking extremely anxious.

"What is it, Courf?" Grantaire asked, yawning.

"Er, R, why has the flat next door got a person in it?"

Grantaire's eyes, heavy with sleep, shot open. "Shit."

Courfreyrac nodded. "That would be the correct utterance."

"Oh, God, you took Combeferre, didn't you? Oh, _baiser_, _putain_, shit, _merde_ and shit. Courf, there's a guy there."

"Well, yes, that's what I found waiting for us. An extremely gorgeous guy, but a guy nonetheless. So, Grantaire, would you mind terribly telling me why the holy hell he's there?"

Grantaire began to pace back in forth in the foyer, muttering the word _merde_ over and over again. "Okay," he said finally, looking up. "Basically, Enjolras moved in a few days ago and I only know this because I helped him with his plumbing yesterday and I'm guessing that Combeferre was about as drunk as it is possible to get without actually dying and you took him to the flat next door because that's what we _do_, that's our 'drunk-Combeferre-hideout' and he was there and he either woke up and started flipping out or you left before Combeferre could do something stupid like kiss the poor fellow." He said this all very fast and Courfreyrac's eyes glazed over halfway through. Then he shook himself.

"Yeah, yeah, sounds right. Luckily I realised that there was a gorgeous man asleep on the couch before Combeferre could do something stupid and I managed to get out before he noticed."

"And I didn't tell you because the last time Combeferre got drunk you just took him to your place and I thought that was the new drunk-Combeferre-hideout. SHIT."

Courfreyrac nodded sagely at the last word. "So, Grantaire, I'm going to leave it to you to explain to the poor gorgeous fellow what happened, 'cos Combeferre doesn't remember and I'm sure as hell not going to do it."

Grantaire pouted. "But why me? I mean, it's not like he woke up."

Courfreyrac laughed nervously and Grantaire narrowed his eyes. "Courf, you just said that he didn't wake up."

Courfreyrac backed up a few steps. "No, I said that we got out before he _noticed. _I never said anything about him not waking up."

"I'm going to slaughter you for this," said Grantaire, and he shut the front door in Courfreyrac's face. He yawned again and walked over to his easel, upon which his most recent painting still laid. As he picked up the paintbrush once more he heard gales of laughter echoing along the hallway and rolled his eyes in a world-weary sort of way.

_ I'll just tell him later_.

* * *

Five hours and three cups of Earl Grey later, Grantaire dressed himself in clothing that was not too wrinkly or paint-covered and went next door to talk to Enjolras.

The blond opened the door and half-smiled when he saw Grantaire. "Yes?"

Grantaire chuckled nervously. "Hi, Enjolras. Er, I was just wondering—did you, by any chance, have a break-in last night?"

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it's just that my friends and I used to use this flat as a sort of sobering-up-place for our friend Combeferre and I forgot to tell Courfreyrac that you moved in and he sort of brought him here. But I swear, he didn't touch anything. He said that as soon as they noticed you they left."

Enjolras opened and closed his mouth a few times before he spoke. "Okay," he said finally. "Okay. Let me get this straight. My flat used to be used as a place for your friend to recover from his drunkenness?"

Grantaire nodded apprehensively.

"All right. And so your friend Courfreyrac, he brought Combeferre here last night because he didn't know that I moved in, right?"

Grantaire nodded again.

"Well, I'm not mad, if that's what you're so worried about," Enjolras said, and there was a hint of laughter in his tone. Grantaire heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank God. I am sorry, though. I completely forgot about it and since Combeferre's last incident was a while ago and even then Courfreyrac just let him kip over at his place, I thought they weren't coming here anymore—"

"Grantaire, it's _fine_. Honestly. I'm not mad. I _am_ running a bit late for work, though, so I'm afraid I have to leave now," Enjolras said, checking the Rolex that gleamed on his left wrist. He smiled apologetically.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Grantaire moved aside and Enjolras locked his flat door behind himself. He stopped at the elevator and pressed the down arrow. When the silver doors slid open and Enjolras entered it, he gave a small wave to Grantaire, who returned it after a second.

He stared at the elevator for several minutes after Enjolras had disappeared, a look of bemusement upon his face. Then he turned and loped back to his flat to finish his painting.

It was not until five o'clock that evening that Grantaire set down his paintbrush, exhausted, and stared at the finished painting. He smiled at the tiny red person that stared up at the bloody smear of a tree, complete with knots in the bark and an extensive root system, some of which broke through the pavement in places. The person, unlike all the other shapeless black blobs, had a distinctive face. Its hair was curly and its eyes large orbs that seemed full of thought and wonder at the enormous tree.

"You look like Jehan," Grantaire murmured, mostly to himself. He thought it certainly plausible, as the eyes had the same childlike innocence and the hair was curly, like Jehan's, but it was not blond, but pinkish-red, and the eyes not blue, but a dark, almost brown-like red.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Grantaire wiped his hands carefully on a nearby towel, smearing red and black against the clinical white, and made his way to the door. He pulled it open and—

"Speak of the devil! I was just thinking about you," Grantaire said, smiling widely at Jehan. "I'm curious—how exactly did you find out where I live?"

Jehan returned the smile somewhat shyly. "Well, I went to the bar to look for you but you weren't there, and Muischetta said that you called in sick. She said that you're working on something and you'll forget to eat, so I'm here to grant you nourishment."

Grantaire laughed and stood aside for Jehan to enter. "Well, that is very kind. Luckily, I've just finished my project and if you will allow me to change my clothing, I will gladly get something to eat with you."

"Of course," said Jehan. Grantaire gestured for him to sit down and he did, looking around at the multitude of paintings in awe.

"In that case, I will be back momentarily," Grantaire said, and he disappeared into his bedroom.

When he returned, Jehan was standing in front of the easel, looking at the finished painting with a small smile; he glanced up when he saw Grantaire. "They're amazing," he said, gesturing to the rest of the room. Grantaire blushed a little bit.

"Thank you," he stammered.

"I do have one question," Jehan said. "Why are they all in only black and red?"

"Because that's how I see the world," said Grantaire promptly; he was obviously asked this question a lot.

"What do you mean? You actually see the world in red and black? Like, you see me in red and black?"

Grantaire laughed. "No, of course not. I don't see the world in red and black—I _see_ it in red and black. I see this couch as green and these walls as robin's egg blue, but I _see_ them as red and black."

"That is very poetic of you," Jehan said, smiling widely.

"Thank you," Grantaire said. "From what people have told me, it is, and I quote, 'Vaguely interesting but severely depressing and visually displeasing. The total value would be a mere two or three hundred pounds for the collection.'"

Jehan gasped dramatically. "That's terrible!"

Grantaire laughed. "It was a review of a collection of about ten or so, made by the not-so-charming Jondrette Thenardier. He's a journalist for the local newspaper. Very unsavoury."

"Well, don't listen to anything _he's_ got to say," Jehan said. "He doesn't sound like a very nice person."

Grantaire smiled. "Well, you know all about my line of work. On the way to dinner, I expect a detailed description of all of your favourite poets. Who knows—I might have heard of a few of them!"


	2. The Portrait of the Revolutionary

**A/N: In this chapter I tried to give the reader a glimpse of the "old" Grantaire, before his sobriety kick. Also, there's going to be lots of e/r fighting in the next chapter, along with Jehan/Grantaire relationship developments :)**

* * *

Grantaire frowned at the canvas. "Something about your face reminds me of someone," he muttered, even as he swirled the red into a small rosette. The painting depicted a man, regal in his stance and posture, looking determinedly at a spot somewhere next to Grantaire's right ear. Something in his eyes made him look sad, though—a man who knew of his imminent death and yet was strong despite the knowledge. Grantaire imagined that his smile, which must have been quite rare, would have been something to behold, had he been real.

The man had a mess of curls and his forehead and collarbone displayed a light sheen of sweat. A black cravat was tied loosely around his neck and rested on his shirt, which was clean, though creased in places. The shirt was only a smudged charcoal outline; the rest of the painting was made up of stark black and dark, muddy red that looked bloody in places. Grantaire narrowed his eyes quizzically and absentmindedly reached for the hip flask that normally rested in his back pocket. Upon finding only empty fabric, he immediately extricated his hand, blushing furiously, and stared determinedly at the canvas, absolutely mortified, though he was utterly alone in his flat. He continued the painting, forcing himself to think of other things—such as the previous night.

Jehan was the very definition of fiercely innocent and poetic in the purest form of the word. Everything he did had a certain premeditated grace, and he seemed to float above everyone else in a world that was entirely his own. This Grantaire knew after knowing him for a mere two days; needless to say, he liked him very much indeed. Jehan could talk for any length of time about every subject that Grantaire could imagine—poetry, music, politics, football, cooking, the history of vodka, et cetera. And yet he never said it in a boring way; with his hands he gesticulated wildly, creating a small world of events so that the listener could visualise what he was saying in his soft, kind voice. He had a love of flowers, which he had told Grantaire when they passed a row of cheerful-looking agapanthus bushes on their way to the restaurant the night previously. He had promptly plucked a particularly beautiful flower and tucked it into his soft-looking blonde hair, beaming at Grantaire, who had laughed.

The dinner had gone exceedingly well, in Grantaire's eyes—he had even declined the expensive and exquisite red wine that the restaurant, which was known as the Corinthe. Jehan had looked confused until Grantaire explained his sobriety. The blond had looked extremely proud of this man whom he had known for only a few days. On their parting, Jehan had kissed Grantaire chastely on both cheeks, uttered a soft "_Au revoir_" and smiled softly. Grantaire had stood there for a while, ignoring the cold wind that nipped at his cheeks and nose, contemplating. Then he had adjusted his soft red beanie, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and walked home.

The present-day Grantaire set down his palette carefully and slumped onto his rickety stool, tapping his foot against the wooden floor and biting his lip, just thinking. He had never been involved in many serious relationships—when he was growing up he knew how much his parents hated his blatant _queerness_, as they called it, and so he did not call further attention (and with it, rebuttal and disapproval) to himself by dating other men. There was one person when he was seventeen, a severely OCD boy named Joly. Grantaire soon realised that his chronic sloppiness when it came to his room and even the dirt under his fingernails would drive the poor boy mad and introduced him to another friend, Feuilly, who took Joly under his arm immediately.

He occasionally met up with the two (now a happy couple) and marvelled at the good Feuilly was doing; Joly was aeons better, health-wise, and as Feuilly so proudly remarked, was taking therapy to help further. Grantaire was not extremely well educated about OCD and thus was careful when speaking to them—the last time he had seen the two was before his sobriety and Grantaire knew only too well how sharp his tongue got when he drank a bit too much.

After Joly, there was Courfreyrac, when Grantaire was twenty and in university. After several months of giddiness and dreams whispered under warm sheets, they realised that they were not each other's respective Prince Charming. Then Courf found Combeferre and they were now trying not to admit that they were madly in love with each other, instead opting for the comfortable safety of best friends that occasionally supported one another when dead drunk. Then, only a few weeks after his breakup with Courfreyrac, Grantaire found another person.

He spent exactly eleven days unabashedly in love with the ever endearing Marius Pontmercy, who was in turn pining after the sweetest person (aside from Jehan) to exist; Cosette. After Grantaire came to his senses (and drank himself into oblivion, only to come back with the worst headache imaginable) he apologised for attempting to climb into Marius' lap during a football match.

After Marius, Grantaire had multiple one-night-stands with both men and women whose faces were blurry in his memory and whose names he could not remember if he tried, drunk or sober. Now Grantaire was twenty-three and wanted to engage in the romantic side of sobriety with a man he had known for two days.

He rolled his eyes at himself and sighed deeply before standing and stretching. His C'EST NE PAS UNE T-SHIRT t-shirt (which it hurt him to say, as it was almost painfully reiterative) rode up, revealing the pale flesh beneath that made up his stomach. He was not a bodybuilder, but Grantaire once thought he was made to be a professional footballer so he worked out almost constantly (until he realised that he was probably the worst player to exist). He was naturally lean and the muscles he got from his workout regimen did not compromise this by making him look like some kind of terrifying bodybuilder; instead his arms and upper body were attractively toned.

Sometimes, after a bad night, the not-quite-sober-yet Grantaire would go for early-morning jogs, which made him get even less sleep than he normally did, what with the hellish hangovers that he had a tendency to get, but made him feel better; the cold morning air helped like a strong cup of coffee, without the disgusting taste. Courfreyrac would occasionally join him and easily outrun him, something that was made possible because of Courf's long legs and impossibly long-lasting energy. Then, after about an hour had passed and the shops had begun to open, they would get coffees, the loser (Grantaire) paying.

Grantaire's thoughts were intruded upon by the sound of loud voices in the hallway. He stood up, brow furrowing in slight hesitation, and crossed his flat to the door. He peered out of the peephole; Enjolras appeared to be arguing loudly with two men Grantaire did not recognise; one was bald and the other had a head of shaggy brown hair. He cracked open the door and stuck his head out.

"Enjolras?"

The blond turned, and the fire in his bright blue eyes dimmed a little when he saw Grantaire. "Um, hi. Sorry, were we being a bit too loud?"

"C'mon, Bahorel, let's go," said one of the other men; his head was perfectly bald and he looked friendly. "Er, see you on Monday, Enjolras." He smiled a bit awkwardly at Grantaire and he and Bahorel left.

"Were you fighting with those men?" Grantaire asked, after the two men had disappeared into the elevator. Enjolras shook his head, trying not to laugh. Grantaire scowled a little. "What?"

"I wasn't _fighting_ with them! Bahorel alone can't go outside without making friends with everyone he sees. No, we were making plans for the anti-marriage protest in a few weeks."

"Oh, is that what you do? Arrange protests?" Grantaire's voice was light but his tone indicated scepticism.

"Kind of. I go to a lot and I speak at them. I just—there's so much that the government refuses to acknowledge. I mean, this is the twenty-first century. We should be past all of the mindless racism and sexism and homophobia, but the government is controlled by a bunch of crotchety old white men who have no respect for the wishes of others. It's absolutely disgusting how we go through life with no resistance—we've just stopped caring about our own needs, as well as the needs of others."

His words seemed to ignite something in him; Enjolras' eyes were bright and fiery, his movements passionate. Grantaire felt a slight flutter in the pit of his stomach at the sight of this man, who at that moment seemed to glow as if he were a god. _Apollo_, Grantaire's brain supplied. _He's Apollo_. And though Grantaire knew how little he himself believed in anything, the words (subpar at best in the mouth of any other) seemed to swell and become ethereal, as if Enjolras was in fact Apollo. Despite this, Grantaire still felt sceptical and smiled a little condescendingly.

"Guess I...have trouble believing in something as ardently as you," he murmured.

Enjolras' brow furrowed. "What?"

"It's just that I don't really believe in much," Grantaire said, smiling. It was not remotely happy.

"How can you not believe in the freedom of the oppressed? These people work every day to be accepted, to be loved, and we sit around on our fat arses ignoring them!"

"There isn't much we can do about it, Enjolras. Not us. Not the little people."

"But—you must believe in _something_!" spluttered Enjolras, his face a little red and his eyes narrowed. "I mean, you told me that you paint, so obviously you believe in that."

"Painting is hardly as noble a cause as protesting," Gratnaire said, voice sour.

"Art is as pure a form of expression as what I do. And it isn't just protesting. I'm part of a small law firm dedicated to taking the cases that no one will, the cases of the homeless and the poor," Enjolras said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. Grantaire snorted.

"You actually think—" he stopped and shook his head.

"I actually think _what_?" Enjolras asked. Grantaire shook his head again, and the fight seemed to go out of him. He smiled a little sadly.

"Will you be my muse?"

Enjolras gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the ache in his back. "Are you nearly done?" he muttered, barely moving his lips. Grantaire popped his head up over the easel; little drops of red and black paint spotted his cheeks and a long smear of bloody-looking acrylic was across his forehead from when he had wiped the sweat from it with his hand.

"Patience, young grasshopper," he said, with an impish grin. Enjolras glared at him, but his exasperation was mixed with something else.

"If I do this, you had better go to my protest," he said, before a paint-covered hand slapped over his mouth.

"If you move, I will gut you," was the reply. The hand, which was warm and long-fingered, drew back. Enjolras glowered at the painter, but did not speak again

"Y'know, I quite like you, which seems very hard to accomplish. I've noticed that, you see, even though we have only been acquaintances for a very short amount of time." Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows and Enjolras breathed out heavily through his nose, ignoring him.

"Two weeks," Grantaire supplied. "You have a very full schedule. What was your excuse for getting out of work today?"

"I told them that my sister is in the hospital," Enjolras said, and a faint red flush crept onto his cheeks.

"Aw, that's so sweet," Grantaire said. "You think of me as your _sister_!"

"Oh, fuck off, Grantaire," Enjolras grumbled. A bark of laughter answered him.

"So the endlessly polite and grammatically correct Apollo can _curse_. This is one for the history books," he said, grinning as he shaded in the nasolabial lines of the revolutionary's face. Enjolras rolled his eyes an imperceptible amount, but he couldn't stop the small smile that crept onto his lips.

* * *

**A/N: I really hope you guys enjoyed it! I know it's a lot shorter than the first chapter, but the next one might be longer, what with the protest and relationship/plot developments (and e/r sexual tension hahahahaha).**


	3. The Differences Between Men

**A/N: woohoo update! I got kinda feelsy whilst writing this so I'm really sorry about the ending. please, please, PLEASE tell me what you all think! It means the world to me and helps me to be a better writer. xoxo**

* * *

The morning of the protest dawned bright and sunny; there was not a single cloud to be seen. Enjolras yawned luxuriously as he crawled out of his too-comfortable-to-get-out-of-at-six-in-the-mornin g-bed. He stumbled into his kitchen, dressed only in a pair of blue and white striped boxers, and grabbed the jug of orange juice out of the refrigerator. He opened up one of the mahogany cabinets, searching blindly for a glass. He poured a healthy measure of juice into it and took a long swig, leaning back against the counter island, tapping his fingers against the cool marble.

Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to vomit.

"Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit."

Enjolras got the worst nerves in the history of _really really bad nerves_ every time a new protest rolled around. As this particular one struck pretty close to home, his nerves were, if possible, worse. He knew what to say. Enjolras was not the type of person who came up with a speech. He surveyed the people around him and used words to make them passionate, give them fire. He knew exactly what everyone needed to hear. That was part of the reason why he loved doing it; standing above the crowds, rousing their fury at the government who refused them their God-given rights.

Enjolras was a natural speaker, and that was why he had gotten himself so many allies; Les Amis de l'ABC, as Bahorel put it. He was grateful that Grantaire was to be there as well, though a large part of him hated the other man, with his bright blue-grey eyes and his ebony curls, and his crooked smile, and his genuine laugh...Enjolras cleared his throat. _Stop it_.

He put the remaining orange juice back into the fridge and returned to his bedroom to shower and get dressed.

His attire was simple—a pair of comfortable (but tight enough to be very aesthetically pleasing) jeans and a blue polo. Enjolras ran his hands through his already mussed hair, thinking for the hundredth time that he _really should get this mop cut_. Once he was dressed, he went next door, knocking lightly on the door.

It opened after a moment, revealing a bleary-eyed Grantaire, who had a tragic case of bedhead. He was wearing his standard-issue skinny jeans and a MARVEL t-shirt. "Morning, Apollo," he muttered, yawning hugely. "Come on in."

He moved aside to allow Enjolras to enter, stifling another yawn with the back of his hand. Enjolras stopped a few yards in and stared around him, mouth slightly open.

"What?"

"It's just—I've never been in here before," Enjolras said.

"Sure you have. Didn't we do the modelling thing in here?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes at Grantaire's poor memory. "No, we did it at my flat because you said something about your place being messy."

"Yeah, which you can now see for yourself. Er, you mind if I bring someone along to the protest?"

Enjolras nodded absently, running his fingers over the nearest painting—it was of him. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "This—this is amazing," he said, louder, glancing quickly back to Grantaire before returning his gaze to the painting.

It was a portrait of him, with a familiar fire in his eyes. In it, he was depicted as a revolutionary, French if his poor remembrance of world history served him correctly. A small rosette was pinned to his jacket. The picture was entirely red and black, and it was (though it brought a flush to his cheeks to think) beautiful.

"It's...wow."

"Not very good, I know," Grantaire said quickly, mistaking his tone for unflattering disbelief.

Enjolras looked at him. Grantaire wasn't looking directly at Enjolras, and his eyes had a strange glint in them—worry, perhaps? Then the cloudy expression cleared and Grantaire grinned again. "Anyway, I'd better go and text Jehan. You're free to, y'know, browse."

Enjolras nodded again, turning back to the painting as Grantaire left the room.

* * *

Jehan bounded up to Grantaire and hugged him tightly, his wild blond hair flying this way and that. When he had released the dark-haired man (who was struggling slightly to breathe), he tied his hair into a braid with nimble fingers and tucked a freshly-picked daisy behind one ear, beaming. Enjolras tipped his head to the side.

"I know you..." he mumbled.

Grantaire turned, cheeks slightly red (Jehan had just kissed him on both cheeks; he was not sure if it was merely Jehan being Jehan or something more, and did not ask), to look at him. "What do you mean?"

Jehan's eyes widened. "ENJOLRAS!" he screeched, throwing himself into the other man's arms. Enjolras stumbled backwards, but righted himself before he could fall.

"Hi, Jehan."

But he could not suppress a small smile at the flamboyancy of Jean Prouvaire. He addressed Grantaire: "Jehan and I used to go to school together, but I got kicked out for protesting the fact that there were almost no healthy options whatsoever in the cafeteria."

Grantaire grinned. "A rebel, I see. And did it work?"

"Nope," Jehan said brightly; he kissed both of Enjolras' cheeks (ah, so it _was_ Jehan being Jehan) and let go of him, straightening his frighteningly eighties-esque shorts, which were a rather alarming shade of pink. "So how have you _been_?" he asked Enjolras conversationally.

"Good. Great, actually, now that I'm out of university and I can plead 'busy with work' whenever my mum asks why I never come round." Enjolras seemed relaxed and comfortable talking to Jehan, and despite the fact that it was actually impossible to hate him, this seemed to be more because of their friendship rather than Enjolras being comfortable with Jehan's idea of personal space (which was non-existent).

"That's good. Your parents never seemed to like me much, did they?"

Grantaire, who had been smiling idly while his brain roamed elsewhere, frowned. "Someone doesn't like _you_?" he asked, rather astonished.

Jehan laughed. "Hard to believe, isn't it? I am sorry to say that it has occurred on several occasions in my lifetime." He did not seem dismayed at the knowledge, and stated it in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"My parents are...closeminded and their lives revolve around ridiculing others," Enjolras supplied, for Grantaire's benefit. He sighed.

Grantaire winced sympathetically. "I know how you feel," he said, but did not elaborate.

Enjolras was silent for a few moments. Then, in an obvious effort to keep the conversation light and cheery, he said, "So are you two...you know?"

Grantaire blinked and turned to Jehan. "What do you think? Are we...you know?"

Jehan giggled and flashed him a smile. "Why yes, R, I do believe that we are...you know. Great place for a first date, this, considering the protest topic."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "I'd better find the others," he said, and with a small smile in both Jehan and Grantaire's directions he disappeared into the thickening crowd.

* * *

Grantaire ignored the shouts of agreement or ridicule and focused on the shining figure on the pedestal before him. Enjolras seemed to have grown, and his voice was passionate and rousing; the words Grantaire did not care about. He had heard them a thousand times over by a thousand different people, but Enjolras seemed to transform them into something new.

Jehan, beside him, gripped his hand tightly, eyes shining with excitement. He yelled with the crowd, screaming his approval of the words pouring like birdsong out of Enjolras' mouth. Grantaire's ears were ringing with the sheer magnitude of the noise of the crowd—people, to his front, back, and sides, pressing in against him, gesticulating madly along with Enjolras. If this was a peaceful protest, then Grantaire really did _not_ want to see a violent one.

"We need to teach them that they _cannot_ take away our given rights because they believe in things that were written in a book from a thousand years ago!" Enjolras yelled, and the crowd roared with him.

In the one millisecond after he said that, in the tiny pocket of time before all hell broke loose, Jehan was fine. His hand was warm and his grip firm and an exhilarated smile was upon his dainty face. Time seemed to have turned to sludge. Grantaire whipped his head around, searching for the source of the noise, the impossibly loud noise that sounding terrifyingly like a gunshot.

In that one millisecond, it was okay.

And then it suddenly wasn't.

Jehan was sagging, and a woman with a rainbow painted across her face was screaming and Enjolras was gone and Grantaire couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't _think_.

"Jehan," he mumbled dully, hands outstretched, and the one that Jehan had been holding was smeared in what looked horribly like blood. "Jehan. Oh, God."

Someone was grabbing at him, yelling unintelligible things into his ear, and his feet were being trodden upon by the thousands of people scrambling to get the hell _out_. Jehan's eyes, his beautiful malachite eyes, were half-closed and his breathing was ragged.

Screaming. Who was screaming? No one. Everyone. No, no, it was only Grantaire. He was screaming and crying and cursing every single person that ignored him. "Jehan, please."

Suddenly, he was being dragged backwards and there were people shouting at him to _please stay back, we need to get him on a trolley_.

"No, please, he's my friend," Grantaire mumbled thickly, still crying. "Please."

A woman in a jacket that said PARAMEDIC in enormous block letters was supporting him, telling him something that he could not hear. All he could see was Jehan, being lifted onto a trolley, with blood covering his ridiculous floral tank top and matting his beautiful braid.

The woman was helping him into an ambulance, telling him that Jehan was...what? "Incredibly lucky. The bullet only went through his shoulder, so there's an enormous chance that he will pull through." Grantaire felt dizzy.

_Lucky._

_ It only went through his shoulder._

_ Lucky._

_ Chance that he'll pull through._

_ Lucky._

_ Lucky._

_ Lucky._


	4. Lucky

**A/N: HAHAHAHHAHA you're welcome for torturing you. this chapter is a bit long (3k words), but i hope that's okay! the next chapter is probably going to be longer and WAY angstier because USTUSTUSTUSTUSTUST (Unresolved Sexual Tension). ta, darlings xoxo**

* * *

"You can go in now, Mr. Arnaud," said the nurse as she exited the ward. Grantaire stood up, hands shaking, looking pale and slightly nauseated. She smiled sympathetically and held the door open for him, accepting his mumbled thank you with a nod.

A sharp intake of breath alerted Jehan to Grantaire's presence. He turned and smiled widely. "Hey, R," he said.

"Hey, Jehan," Grantaire said, and he sat down in the plastic chair next to Jehan's bed. "How—how are you?"

"Other than having been shot in the shoulder, I'm fine," Jehan retorted drily, but upon noticing the worry lining Grantaire's face and the tears in the dark-haired man's eyes, he whispered, "R, I'm okay. It's not your fault, okay?"

"Yes, it is," Grantaire said, and he swiped away his tears angrily. "If I hadn't invited you to that stupid protest, none of this would have happened. I put you in the fucking _hospital_, Jehan."

"No, you didn't. Some asshat with a gun did."

"I might as well have! God, I can't...what if you had been shot in the heart, or the brain, Jehan? You still might have died if the paramedics hadn't arrived. It's all my fault."

"Oh, shut up, you big idiot," Jehan said. He grabbed one of Grantaire's hands with both of his own, and kissed it. "It's not your fault. I am fine. Hungry, yes. Yearning for food that isn't crappy orange jelly, yes. Dead? I don't think so. Stop worrying, okay?"

Grantaire smiled. "Okay."

Jehan shook his hand. "Good. And R?"

"Yeah?"

Jehan yanked Grantaire forward and kissed him hard on the mouth.

* * *

"OH MY GOD GRANTAIRE ARE YOU OKAY JESUS CHRIST YOU WERE ON THE NEWS PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT DEAD ARE YOU DEAD GRANTAIRE PLEASE TALK TO ME I NEED TO KNOW IF YOU'RE DEAD OR NOT."

Grantaire massaged his temples, waiting patiently until Courfeyrac stopped shouting. "Courf, I'm _fine_. You're acting worse than I was, and it was my—" the word _boyfriend_ seemed almost too human, too lowly a position for Jehan "-_friend_ who was shot."

Courfeyrac let out a dramatic gasp and took a fortifying gulp of coffee. "Oh, my _God_. Super beautiful guy who 'Ferre and I walked in on? Please tell me that it wasn't super beautiful guy."

"His name is _Enjolras_," Grantaire said, amused, "and no. I'm pretty sure that he's okay. I haven't talked to him since. My friend who was shot is called Jehan."

Courfeyrac's eyes widened. "Oh, my God. That—you—if that was your first date, I am going to rip off your arms and feed them to you."

Grantaire avoided his gaze and Courfeyrac groaned. "Why are we friends?" he whispered, turning his eyes up to the ceiling of the little café, as if searching for some kind of divine answer to his problems.

"It's not my fault!" Grantaire protested. "Enjolras asked if we were dating and Jehan said that the protest was the perfect place for a first date, given the topic. It's not like I knew—_Courfeyrac Vermette stop looking at me like that_."

Courfeyrac had rolled his eyes and wore an expression that seemed to be mildly constipated superiority. "So, on your very first date with a man who I'm assuming you're madly in love with, you managed to get him _shot_. I thought _my_ relationships were bad, but that's about a thousand times worse!"

"No need to sound so gleeful," Grantaire said.

"So, when am I to meet this dashing fellow—and your friend Jehan, of course," Courfeyrac added with a wink. Grantaire flicked him.

"Did you actually just do—you—you just _flicked_ me!" Courf sounded positively outraged, and Grantaire smiled with satisfaction.

"You're going to meet them on Friday," he said. "Jehan's coming home from the hospital and I'm having a get-together type thing. Marius and Cosette and Combeferre are going to be there, too."

"Can I bring some blokes I met at the Musain?"

"Well, if they aren't crazy ax-murderers, then sure," Grantaire replied. "What're their names?"

"Bahorel and Bossuet," Courfeyrac said.

"Hold on, those're Enjolras' friends," said Grantaire, a look of recognition dawning on his face. "Yeah, I remember because it sounded like they were arguing but Enjolras said that they were talking about the protest. That's when I asked him to do the painting."

"Oh. Well, they're grand, and Bossuet says he knows Joly! Isn't that funny? If you invite him and Feuilly, it'll be like every person you've ever dated in the same room!"

"Courf, if you don't shut up I'm going to tell 'Chetta not to give you a single drink on Friday," Grantaire said.

"What?" Courfeyrac asked, his face a mask of pure innocence. "I just thought it would be nice. They've moved back here, you know—or do you? I feel like I'm the only one who actually talks to your exes. Maybe that's because one of them's me."

Grantaire sighed.

* * *

"R, for the last time, I'm perfectly capable of walking down to the cafeteria," Jehan protested, but he smiled anyway. Grantaire blushed and loosened his grip on Jehan's good arm.

"Sorry, it's just—"

"I _know_, doofus. You still feel guilty so you're trying to make it up to me." Jehan stopped and turned to face Grantaire. "I don't blame you for anything, you mother hen," he said, and kissed him. It was chaste, nothing more than a quick peck, but it still felt infinitely romantic purely because of Jehan's infinite romance. "Now, let's get some disgusting hospital food!" he said cheerfully, and began walking again. Grantaire grabbed his hand instead of his arm this time, lacing their fingers together with a slight smile.

"You've become addicted to the jelly, haven't you?" he asked.

Jehan grinned. "After a while it just kind of loses the taste and is bearable to eat."

"You know what they say. It always starts off small, this kind of thing. Today it's jelly. Next week, who knows?" Grantaire said.

"Dun-dun-dun," Jehan laughed, giving his hand a squeeze. "God, when I get home you're going to have to wean me off it. It's so disgusting but it's _so good_. I've actually started looking forward to my afternoon jelly."

"Okay, I've changed my mind, you're having a salad," Grantaire said, practically dragging Jehan away to the salad bar.

* * *

"Need some help?"

Grantaire peered over the top of the box of napkins and caught sight of Musichetta's wild orangey curls. "I'm not pregnant, 'Chetta, I can handle it."

"Yeah, but you're carrying a box of napkins that weighs more than I do," she retorted, taking it from him and shoving it under the bar. "So! You nervous for tonight?"

Grantaire flushed. "What do you mean? Why would I be nervous?"

"Well, it's the first time any of your whacko friends are going to see your hot new boyfriend. People generally get nervous about stuff like that. Maybe the years of alcoholism dulled your senses, turned you into a sort of demon."

"For your information, I have been sober for three months, 'Chetta, and it's not like you're one to talk! You drink more in a day than a normal person does in a week."

"Ah, but I'm not trying to be normal, am I? It's not _my_ fault that I'm the manager of a bar. And so what if I take a swig of brandy now and again? It's hefty stuff, keeps me on my toes!"

"Yeah, and it also keeps your head in the toilet. It's disgusting!" Grantaire said, poking the side of her head and wiping a couple of used glasses. Musichetta smacked him upside the head, winking and blowing him a quick kiss before waltzing off to gather dishes when he turned around. He tossed the dirty dishrag at the back of her head, but she caught it deftly with one hand and began wiping down a table, whistling along to a song that sounded suspiciously like "Don't Stop Me Now".

Grantaire rolled his eyes and shoved a pair of earbuds into his ears, trying desperately to find a song that was loud enough to deafen Musichetta, who had now started singing loudly and offkey.

They managed to clean up the bar in record time, each singing along (in Musichetta's case, very poorly) to their own music. "What time is it?" Grantaire asked when he had dried the last shot glass. Musichetta glanced at her watch.

"About ten after five. When's everyone supposed to get here?"

"Six, I think, but you know Courf's going to be late and 'Ferre's going to be early. Marius and Cosette are dropping 'Ponine off at her friend's house, so they should be here fairly soon. If I remember correctly, Joly and Feuilly will be here at six on the dot, because Joly's so uptight about stuff like that."

Musichetta swatted him. "R, it's not like he can _help_ it. He's got a disorder! And besides, Joly's a sweetie. He comes here sometimes and helps me with the cleaning. Shouldn't you be running off to pick up your dashing prince from the hospital?"

Grantaire rolled his eyes at her. "No, because he told me that if I tried to, he would gut me."

"God, you _are_ a clingy boyfriend, aren't you? I mean, Courf warned me, but _wow_. Good thing I'm not into reformed alcoholics, because you'd be awful. No offence meant," she added hastily as he glared at her.

"For your information, _'Chetta_, I am not a reformed alcoholic. Alcoholics actually go to, like, meetings and shit. I am a reformed _drunk_."

"Ooh, excuse me, Mr. Posh!" Musichetta said. She grinned cheekily at him. "So, what about the gorgeous blond one?"

"What, Enjolras?"

"No, R, I was talking about you. Yes, you nutter! What's the story behind him? He's quite a looker, isn't he?"

Grantaire shrugged. "I s'pose. He's a bit too..._perfect,_ though."

"He looks like a fucking god."

"Yeah, I know, but he's a bit too optimistic, y'know what I mean?"

Musichetta sighed. "We aren't all pessimists, R."

"Cynics."

"What?"

"I'm not a pessimist, I'm a cynic."

Musichetta let out a loud, exasperated groan. "_Grantaire_."

"Sorry."

The first person to arrive was Combeferre, glasses dangerously low on his nose as he slowly walked into the bar, deeply immersed in a battered copy of _Paradise Lost_.

"How's the book, 'Ferre?" Musichetta called, grinning.

"'All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield,'" Combeferre quoted, perching on a barstool without looking up.

"Sounds a bit too philosophical for my tastes," she said, and was rewarded with a scathing glance.

"That's the _point_," he said.

Musichetta laughed and ruffled his hair as she passed. "Kidding, sweetheart. Only kidding. Want your usual?"

Combeferre smiled, slightly abashed. "Just a Coke, please."

Grantaire grinned. "Why, cause you don't want to see my gorgeous neighbour when you're drunk again?"

Combeferre flushed bright red, but before he could begin to splutter an excuse, the door had opened again and Marius and Cosette entered.

"Hello, everyone!" Cosette said cheerfully, swatting away Marius' hand as he tried to help her remove her winter coat. "Darling, I can take off my coat. Pregnant is not synonymous with handicapped."

Marius kissed her on the cheek and unwound his scarf, hanging it up in the little closet reserved for employees. Musichetta ignored this fact and lent it out to her friendly on a regular basis. "How's 'Ponine?" she asked, hugging them both. Cosette lit up.

"Oh, she's lovely. She and Marius are working on a science project for school. Her teachers say that she's the smartest one in the class! Evening, R," she said, hugging the smiling Grantaire.

"When're you due?" he asked, glancing down at her enormous stomach.

"Marius, when am I due?"

Marius looked up. "In three and a half weeks," he said, without hesitation. Cosette grinned up at Grantaire, who was a good five inches taller than her.

"Bit of a nervous dad," she told him in a stage-whisper. He laughed and saluted Marius.

"So I suppose you'll not be wanting any alcoholic drinks. Between you and 'Ferre, we're going to run out of business!" he said. Combeferre glared at him over the top of _Paradise Lost_.

"What d'you mean? Last I heard, Courf and 'Ferre have been hitting about every bar in town!"

"Look, it was just _one_ time, okay, and it's only because I—" Combeferre stopped himself, sighed in a world-weary sort of way, and disappeared behind his book once more. Cosette raised her eyebrows at Grantaire, but said no more on the subject.

"Well, anyway, Courf just texted to say that he's on his way. When're Joly and Feuilly supposed to be here?"

"I would imagine any second now, if Joly's as punctual as I remember," Grantaire supplied, glancing at the wall clock. Musichetta glared at him and he held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I just said _punctual_, okay? Nothing wrong with punctual."

* * *

"GRANTAIRE LOOK WHO I RAN INTO ON THE WAY HERE HAHA LOOK IT'S YOUR BOYFRIEND HI BOYFRIEND!"

Grantaire did not bother looking up at Courfeyrac, who sounded slightly manic. "Hi, Courf," he mumbled into the cool wood of the table. He did remove his head from it, however, when Jehan's soft voice issued from a few feet away.

"Hey there, stranger."

Grantaire smiled and accepted Jehan's kiss, much to the delight of Courfeyrac. "Get a room, you two!" he called, crowing with laughter; Grantaire flipped him off. Eventually he and Jehan parted (though somewhat reluctantly), their hair slightly less neat than it had been previously. Jehan perched gracefully on the chair at the other end of the table, beaming around at the conglomeration of Grantaire's friends.

After Marius and Cosette (and Combeferre, who had marked his place in _Paradise Lost_ when Courfeyrac entered the bar), Bahorel and Bossuet had arrived, greeting them all with large smiles. Joly and Feuilly came together as well, the latter murmuring something to the former before shaking Marius' hand firmly and congratulating him and Cosette on the upcoming child. Joly had hugged Grantaire warmly, chattering about how he had been taking special immersion classes to help with his OCD; Musichetta had struck up a conversation with him and Bossuet, saving Grantaire from the risk of accidentally insulting Joly.

Enjolras alone had not yet shown up, and Grantaire was not the only person to notice this. Courfeyrac glanced continually towards the door, even as he talked animatedly to Combeferre, and Grantaire could not help but do it too. Jehan noticed his slightly troubled gaze. "R, what's wrong?"

Grantaire jumped and turned to face Jehan. "I—nothing. God, I haven't even introduced you to everyone, have I? I ought to get an award—shittiest boyfriend of the year."

Jehan laughed and grabbed his hand. "Trust me, R, you are about as far from a shitty boyfriend as it is possible to get. Nevertheless, it would delight me to meet all of your friends."

"Right. Oy, everyone, Jehan wants to meet you and whatnot."

Jehan giggled and lightly flicked the back of Grantaire's head and sketched a little wave to the general public; Cosette returned it, her smile positively blinding. Grantaire stood and walked over to the person nearest the door, which was Marius.

"Marius, meet Jean Prouvaire, alias Jehan. Jehan, meet Marius Pontmercy. Marius is a bit of a clumsy dork who gets flustered if you so much as mention sex, but he's endearing and his freckles are hypnotising so I like him anyway."

Marius blushed, but smiled at Jehan anyway. "Er, hi," he said.

Grantaire turned to the next person. "Cosette, my darling angelic beauty. Meet Jehan. Jehan, meet the lovely Cosette Pontmercy, formerly Fauchelevant. Cosette here is wicked smart as well as gorgeous, and I aspire to have hair as fantastically well-groomed as hers."

Cosette rolled her eyes and said, "Hey, Jehan."

"Bahorel Abelin, meet Jehan. Jehan, Bahorel. Bahorel, I don't really know you all that well, but I feel like we have a special something. I also feel like you could beat me in a bar fight, hands down." Grantaire grinned up at the intimidating figure of Bahorel; the other man flexed his biceps threateningly before relaxing his face into an easy smile and saluting Jehan.

"Bossuet Monfort, Jehan. Jehan, Bossuet. I don't really know you well either, but you're a cutie and your head really is astoundingly smooth, so I think we'll get on rather swimmingly."

Bossuet winked at Jehan, grinning broadly, and Grantaire moved on to Joly.

"Joly Desjardins, my friend, my comrade, you're brilliant. I apologise for any past intrusions of your emotions, because you're a rather fantastic sort of character. Meet Jehan. Jehan, meet Joly."

Joly smiled and accepted Grantaire's hug willingly.

"Feuilly, meet Jehan. Jehan, meet Feuilly Cousteau. He's an insanely smart entrepreneur—dabbles a lot, but he's settled down with...hold on, what did you say it was?"

Feuilly grinned. "Fan-making."

"Fan-making! How cool is that, eh?" Grantaire pretended for a moment to fan himself off, before moving to Musichetta. She had one eyebrow raised, and a small smirk was playing about her red lips. "Ah, Musichetta Valois. What a superb girl, very literary, with tiny feet, little hands, and the eyes of a fortune-teller. Meet Jehan. Jehan, meet the ever-fantastic 'Chetta."

Musichetta punched Grantaire in the shoulder and he winced. "Wotcha, Jehan."

Grantaire came to Courfeyrac next. "Jehan, this is the ultimate dickhead—Courfeyrac Thibaud. He's awful and I hate him, but unfortunately he has great puppy-dog eyes and his hair is nicer than mine, so I have to keep him around."

"I hate you," Courfeyrac said, but he was grinning.

"And on to Combeferre! Combeferre Peltier here is a very good friend of mine and a rather astounding lawyer. He spends his days reading philosophy books and trying desperately not to let his glasses slip all the way off his nose. 'Ferre, meet Jehan; Jehan, meet 'Ferre."

Grantaire bowed low and returned to his table, slouching comfortably in the wooden chair. "And now you have met the entirety of my social life—excluding Enjolras, of course, but you already know him."

"Speaking of super hot next-door neighbour," Courfeyrac said, ignoring Grantaire's glare, "where is he?"

"I dunno. Probably got held up at some kind of meeting. He's a lawyer too, like 'Ferre, only his cases are mainly ones that nobody else will take. He probably got a case all of a sudden," Grantaire said, ignoring the pang in his stomach and looping an arm around Jehan's shoulder, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with his plait. Jehan relaxed into his arm, smiling.

The rest of their friends resumed their individual conversations once more, Courfeyrac sparing them a disgusted glance before turning back to Combeferre.

"Do you know," Grantaire said slowly, "you're probably the best thing that's ever happened to me."


	5. That Which Cannot be Put Into Words

**A/N: I'm so sorry it's been forever since my last update! I've been really busy, what with sending my computer off to the magic repair shop and getting ready for school (ew), but here we are! It's a fairly short chapter, and it's not my favourite, but oh well! There's a bit of Courf's POV, which was quite fun to write. More of that is in the next chapter, as well as Jehan's POV! Enjoy, darlings, and don't forget to give me your feedback! XOXO Issy**

* * *

"So," Grantaire began casually, dipping his brush into inky black paint and smearing it across the canvas.

Enjolras raised one eyebrow. "So...?"

"So," Grantaire parroted, "why weren't you at the party?"

Enjolras bowed his head before remembering Grantaire's promise (_"If you even think about moving, I swear to every god they will not find your body, Apollo"_) and jerking it back into position. "Oh. That. I—I didn't really think you would want me there. I mean, you haven't exactly talked to me since...well, since the protest."

Grantaire rolled his eyes, jabbing the canvas with rather more force than was necessary, cursing when the rusty red paint dribbled down into the black. "Enjolras, I invited you because I wanted you to be there. Everyone missed you, Courf especially. He keeps asking me about—" Grantaire's voice cut off, and his cheeks flushed bright red.

Enjolras furrowed his brow. "What does he keep asking you about?"

"Well, he's dubbed you Mr. Hot Next-Door Neighbour," Grantaire muttered, his voice so low that Enjolras had to strain to hear it. When he did, however, he let out a disbelieving laugh.

"_Really_?"

"Yes, really. My friends are kind of insane."

The two were silent for a while before Grantaire spoke again, his voice soft. "You didn't actually answer my question, you know."

Enjolras swallowed. "Well, I didn't go because I was worried...well, I invited you to the protest, and objectively that could be seen as—as me causing Jehan to be hurt. I thought you might be, well, _angry_ at me. Coward's way out, I know." He spoke haltingly, almost as if he was scared of rebuttal.

Grantaire stopped painting and carefully set down his palette and brush, wiping his hands with a dishcloth. "Enjolras, why would I be mad at you?"

"Well, I just gave you a pretty good reason," the blond mumbled, his cheeks flushing a little. "Enjolras, I don't blame you for getting Jehan hurt. If anyone is to blame, it's me! You had no idea that it would become anything other than a peaceful protest. It wasn't your fault."

Enjolras sighed. "Fine, fine. It wasn't my fault. I, um, I should probably go, if that's okay. I forgot that I have a case to work on, so I need to do some—some research..."

His voice trailed off weakly and he winced visibly at the transparency of his lie, but Grantaire took it in stride. "Of course it's okay! Just come by whenever you're free and we can get more work done. Here, I'll show you out." He hopped off of his rickety wooden stool stool and walked Enjolras to the door.

"Well, I'll see you later then, I suppose," Enjolras said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Grantaire nodded, an eager smile forming on his lips. "Right. Er, 'bye then."

Grantaire stared after the blond man, slightly confused at his stilted goodbye, but shrugged it off after a minute and closed the door. He turned his head to look at his latest portrait—the colours were unusually bright; a cheerful red and an almost greyish black made up Enjolras' silhouette, the overall tone considerably less sombre than Grantaire's usual works. The artist had once painted a bouquet of sunflowers using only black and dark grey, which had greatly upset his client, even though he had already informed her of his style.

He smiled faintly at the vivid memory, which slathered itself across the inside of his mind like a Van Gogh. _"I asked for bright, cheerful sunflowers! Not my teenager's emo phase!"_

_"__Well, this is the type of thing that I do. If you don't like the painting, you can do it yourself."_

She had stormed out at that point, looking shocked and angry at his impudence; she returned moments later, however, and grabbed the painting out of his hands with a mumbled _"It's better than nothing"_ and had dropped a handful of crumpled ten-pound notes on the little wooden stool.

He had spent the money on week-old whiskey and gotten drunk while he painted his death into the rough canvas with bloody red. The next morning Courfeyrac had found him passed out on the floor in a puddle of his own vomit and taken him to the nearest hospital.

A week later, he was sober.

* * *

"Do you want to go dancing?"

Grantaire laughed before he realised that Jehan was serious. He rolled over so that they were facing each other, noses barely brushing, Jehan's breath soft against his cheek. "Dancing?"

Jehan smiled. "Yes, you dork, _dancing_. It's something that two or more people generally partake in, and there are multiple types. Tango, flamenco, salsa, cha-cha, ballroom, et cetera. Do you want to go dancing?"

"As long as it's with you," Grantaire replied before he could stop himself; he blushed at the sappy words, but smiled shyly anyway.

"Well, duh," Jehan whispered, before kissing him softly on the lips. "If you want, we can invite other people, maybe make it a group thing."

"I'd like to see Courf learning to do the tango," Grantaire said, laughing. Jehan rolled his eyes, grinning, and sat up, stretching his pale arms above his head.

"What ti-ti-time is it?" he asked, yawning hugely. Grantaire rolled over and squinted at the little digital clock on his nightstand.

"Ten to nine," he said, shoving the warm duvet off of himself and standing up, rubbing at his blue-green eyes. Jehan groaned and climbed out of bed.

"Damn. I've got to get ready for work," he said, making a face at the prospect.

"Oh, shut up, you. I know you love your work. Go and get ready and I'll fix us some breakfast," Grantaire said, giving Jehan a little shove in the direction of the bathroom, laughing at the poet's expression.

Thirty minutes and three shiver-inducing kisses to the back Grantaire's neck and shoulder (delivered, of course, by Jehan, whose long hair dripped freezing water onto Grantaire's bare skin and made him shudder) later, the two sat down to pancakes and bacon. "So how long are you going to be painting today?" Jehan asked, taking a dainty sip of his mimosa (Grantaire's was plain orange juice, due to his sobriety kick, but he drank it from an elegant champagne flute anyway).

"Well, I'm not sure. Enjolras was acting a bit weird yesterday, but he said that he had some kind of case to work on, so we'll probably only be able to do it for an hour or two. Of course, _ideally_, I'd paint you, but since you refuse to stay still for more than two seconds at a time," Grantaire said, voice teasing. Jehan kicked him gently under the table.

"I would love to let you paint me. Just not today, when I've got to work," he said, sticking his tongue out. Grantaire laughed.

"This weekend, then."

"It's a date," Jehan said, stretching out the last work so that it sounded like _dayyyyyte_. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"Go get dressed, you awful person. I'll clean up."

Jehan gave him a quick smile and rushed off to his bedroom, tying his hair back into a neat braid. He paused at the doorway, pivoted, and mouthed, _I love you_ to Grantaire.

"I love you too, now get dressed or you'll be late!" Grantaire said, throwing a dishtowel at Jehan's now-retreating head and turning back to the sink full of dirty dishes. "Right. How should I go about doing this?" he mumbled to himself, searching the kitchen desperately for a sponge or dishsoap.

Eventually he managed to find the appropriate cleaning supplies and set to work, humming a sad song as he did so. He began to sing under his breath:

_Well, maybe I've been here before_

_I've seen this room, I've walked this floor_

_I used to live alone before I knew you_

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_

_Love is not a victory march_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah_

* * *

Courfeyrac looked around anxiously. When Jehan had asked him if he wanted to go dancing, he had expected a grungy underground club full of sweaty bodies writhing against each other. What he did get was definitely in the style of Jehan, however, and he was slightly annoyed that he had not paused to think about what the poet had meant.

"Ta-da!"

Jehan had looked really proud of himself, and Grantaire had not been able to stop himself from laughing at the dumbstruck expression on Courfeyrac's face.

"Jehan, where the _hell_ are we?"

"A polka club!" Jehan had announced gleefully, clapping his hands together in unadulterated delight. Courfeyrac blinked several times, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and strode into the building, back ramrod straight and legs stiff. Grantaire and Jehan had followed soon afterwards, and then the rest of their friends (Combeferre, attempting to stop his glasses from sliding down his narrow nose; Musichetta; Bahorel and Bossuet; and Feuilly and Joly).

Now Courfeyrac was sitting in one of the booths that lined the entrance side of the club, arms crossed, glaring at Jehan and Grantaire, who were dancing amidst a sea of old people and their friends alike. The old women seemed to feel an irritating need to pinch the cheeks of the young men, but all of them (excluding Joly and Bahorel) took it in stride. Courfeyrac fervently hoped that none of the women caught sight of him, but he figured that they wouldn't, seeing as it was fairly dark and most of them had on clunky bifocals.

He took a gulp of beer, savouring the slightly bitter aftertaste that lingered on his tongue after he drank.

"You seem slightly more disgruntled than usual."

Courfeyrac looked up, a smile already forming on his lips. Combeferre, whose cheeks were slightly flushed from exertion, was smiling down at him. He took the seat opposite Courfeyrac, setting a full bottle of beer on the cool surface of the table.

"Guess I'm just not in the mood for partying with grandmas," Courfeyrac said, putting air quotes around the words _in the mood_.

"It's not that bad, you know," Combeferre said, somewhat gently. He knew by instinct that this was not his friend's first beer (nor would it be his last) and a drunk Courfeyrac was at the same time gruff and irritated by nearly anything and desperately sad. "However," he added, noticing the sombre look on Courfeyrac's face that did not disappear, "I'm guessing that this is about something else as well."

Courfeyrac shrugged one shoulder, fiddling with a stray thread on his t-shirt. "I dunno," he mumbled slowly.

"Courf, come on. This is me you're talking to. It's not like I'm known for my blabber-mouthing qualities," Combeferre said cajolingly, his tone slightly teasing. Courfeyrac laughed softly, but his face quickly regained its sombre appearance.

"It's not really something—I can just—just _talk_ about, y'know?"

"What do you mean?"

Courfeyrac bit his lip. "I—well, I just—" His cheeks were bright red, and almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the club. He began to clench and unclench his fingers, swallowing hard.

"Courf—"

But Combeferre was unable to complete his sentence, because his mouth was otherwise occupied.


End file.
